The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse. Reid Mayne
advantage of seeing her face, were making them to her feet!”
“Ha, ha! – what an idea of yours, mad’m’selle!”
“In the end, she was not ungenerous – she let you see the face.”
“The devil!” exclaimed I, starting; “you saw the dénouement, then?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed she; “of course I saw the dénouement, ha, ha! —drôle, wasn’t it?”
“Very,” replied I, not much relishing the joke, but endeavouring to join my companion in the laugh.
“How silly the spark looked! Ha, ha!”
“Very silly, indeed. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And how disappointed – ”
“Eh?”
“How disappointed you looked, monsieur!”
“Oh – ah – I – no – I assure you – I had no interest in the affair. I was not disappointed– at least not as you imagine.”
“Ah!”
“The feeling uppermost in my mind was pity– pity for the poor girl.”
“And you really did pity her?”
This question was put with an earnestness that sounded somewhat strange at the moment.
“I really did. The creature seemed so mortified – ”
“She seemed mortified, did she?”
“Of course. She left the room immediately after, and has not returned since. No doubt she has gone home, poor devil!”
“Poor devil! Is that the extent of your pity?”
“Well, after all, it must be confessed she was a superb deception: a finer dancer I never saw – I beg pardon, I except my present partner – a good foot, an elegant figure, and then to turn out – ”
“What?”
“Una negrilla!”
“I fear, monsieur, you Americans are not very gallant towards the ladies of colour. It is different here in Mexico, which you term despotic.”
I felt the rebuke.
“To change the subject,” continued she; “are you not a poet?”
“I do not deserve the name of poet, yet I will not deny that I have made verses.”
“I thought as much. What an instinct I have! O that I could prevail upon you to write some verses to me!”
“What! without knowing either your name or having looked upon your face. Mam’selle, I must at least set the features I am called upon to praise.”
“Ah, monsieur, you little know: were I to unmask those features, I should stand but a poor chance of getting the verses. My plain face would counteract all your poetic inspirations.”
“Shade of Lucretia! this is no needlewoman, though dealing in weapons quite as sharp. Modiste, indeed! I have been labouring under a mistake. This is some dame spirituelle, some grand lady.”
I had now grown more than curious to look upon the face of my companion. Her conversation had won me: a woman who could talk so, I fancied, could not be ill-looking. Such an enchanting spirit could not be hidden behind a plain face; besides, there was the gracefulness of form, the small gloved hand, the dainty foot and ankle demonstrated in the dance, a voice that rang like music, and the flash of a superb eye, which I could perceive even through the mask. Beyond a doubt, she was beautiful.
“Lady!” I said, speaking with more earnestness than ever, “I entreat you to unmask yourself. Were it not in a ball-room, I should beg the favour upon my knees.”
“And were I to grant it, you could hardly rise soon enough, and pronounce your lukewarm leave-taking. Hat monsieur! think of the yellow domino!”
“Mam’selle, you take pleasure in mortifying me. Do you deem me capable of such fickleness? Suppose for a moment, you are not what the world calls beautiful, you could not, by removing your mask, also strip yourself of the attractions of your conversation – of that voice that thrills through my heart – of that grace exhibited in your every movement! With such endowments how could a woman appear ill-looking? If your face was even as black as hers of the yellow domino, I verily believe I could not perceive its darkness.”
“Ha, ha, ha! take care what you say, monsieur. I presume you are not more indulgent than the rest of your sex; and well know I that, with you men, ugliness is the greatest crime of a woman.”
“I am different, I swear – ”
“Do not perjure yourself, as you will if I but remove my mask. I tell you, sir, that in spite of all the fine qualities you imagine me to possess, I am a vision that would horrify you to look upon.”
“Impossible! – your form, your grace, your voice. Oh, unmask! I accept every consequence for the favour I ask.”
“Then be it as you wish; but I shall not be the means of punishing you. Receive from your own hands the chastisement of your curiosity.”
“You permit me, then? Thanks, mam’selle, thanks! It is fastened behind: yes, the knot is here – now I have it – so – so – ”
With trembling fingers I undid the string, and pulled off the piece of taffety. Shade of Sheba! what did I see?
The mask fell from my fingers, as though it had been iron at a cherry heat. Astonishment caused me to drop it; rather say horror – horror at beholding the face underneath – the face of the yellow domino! Yes, there was the same negress with her thick lips, high cheek-bones, and the little well-oiled kinks hanging like corkscrews over her temples!
I knew not either what to say or do; my gallantry was clean gone; and although I resumed my seat, I remained perfectly dumb. Had I looked in a mirror at that moment, I should certainly have beheld the face of a fool.
My companion, who seemed to have made up her mind to such a result, instead of being mortified, burst into a loud fit of laughter, at the same time crying out in a tone of raillery —
“Now, Monsieur le Poète, does my face inspire you? When may I expect the verses? To-morrow? Soon? Never? Ah! monsieur, I fear you are not more gallant to us poor ‘ladies ob colour’ than your countryman the lieutenant. Ha, ha, ha!”
I was too much ashamed of my own conduct, and too deeply wounded by her reproach, to make reply. Fortunately her continued laughter offered me an opportunity to mutter some broken phrases, accompanied by very clumsy gestures, and thus take myself off. Certainly, in all my life, I never made a more awkward adieu.
I walked, or rather stole, towards the entrance, determined to leave the ball-room, and gallop home.
On reaching the door, my curiosity grew stronger than my shame; and I resolved to take a parting look at this singular Ethiopian. The blue domino, still within the niche, caught my eye at once; but on looking up to the face – gracious Heaven! it was Isolina’s!
I stood as if turned into stone. My gaze was fixed upon her face, and I could not take it off. She was looking at me; but, oh! the expression with which those eyes regarded me! That was a glance to be remembered for life. She no longer laughed, but her proud lip seemed to curl with a sarcastic smile, as of scorn!
I hesitated whether to return and apologise. But no; it was too late. I could have fallen upon my knees, and begged forgiveness. It was too late. I should only subject myself to further ridicule from that capricious spirit.
Perhaps my look of remorse had more effect than words. I thought her expression changed; her glance became more tender, as if inviting me back! Perhaps —
At this moment a man approached, and without ceremony seated himself by her side. His face was towards me – I recognised Ijurra!
“They converse. Is it of me? Is it of – ? If so, he will laugh. A world to see